As I stepped inside, my breath caught in my throat. The dim light flickered over the walls, revealing something I never could have expected. The once-messy garage had been transformed. The floor was spotless, the shelves organized, and in the corner, the woman stood, carefully arranging what looked like…paintings?
I took a hesitant step forward. “What… what is all this?”
She turned to me, her frail hands gripping a brush, her face unreadable. “I used to be an artist,” she said softly. “Before life took everything away.”
I swallowed hard. The paintings—dozens of them—lined the walls. Each one was breathtaking, telling a story of love, loss, and survival. Some were portraits of people I didn’t recognize, but one painting made my heart stop.
It was my mother.
My knees nearly buckled. “How…how did you—?”
She smiled, sadness in her eyes. “I saw her picture on your mantle when you let me in that night. Something about her stayed with me. She had kind eyes, like you.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. My mother had always loved art. Seeing her immortalized like this by a woman who had been discarded by the world—it was overwhelming.
“You have a gift,” I whispered. “Why aren’t you—?”
She shook her head. “No one wants art from someone like me. Galleries don’t take in homeless nobodies.”
I stared at her, then back at the paintings. A thought formed in my mind, and I knew exactly what I had to do.
“Come with me,” I said. “We’re going to change that.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
I met her gaze, determination growing inside me. “We’re going to show the world your work. You have too much beauty inside you to be hidden in a garage.”
She hesitated, as if afraid to believe in hope again. But then, slowly, she nodded.
And in that moment, I realized—I hadn’t just given her shelter. I had given her back a future.